Bleach Compilation Snippets and Drabbles of the Future
by wolfdancer333
Summary: For Bleach month this August, I'm making a compilation! The first story is Week 1 Day 1: Competition! Summary: In the morning light, Ichigo watches his slumbering wife, thinking of their future and what could have been.
1. Musings of the Sun and Moon's What-ifs

Sunlight cast warm, thick fingers across the wooden floor, squeezing through half-open shoji. Bright light filtered through the paper screens, lighting up the small bedroom and encasing it in a gentle hue. The world was waking up, the Sun rising into a bright, cloudless blue sky and enticing those still slumbering to rise with it. Spread out on the floor and tangled in a heap of blankets were two forms, one encompassing the other. Messy, unkempt orange hair glowed in the light of the Sun's fingers, brightening the strands into streaks of fire and dusting his cheeks in warmth. Nose twitching and eyebrows furrowing, sleep fought against the Sun's call and Kurosaki, Ichigo sluggishly hovered between wakeful awareness and the deep slumber he was slowly being dragged from.

On the edge between sunlight and shadow, he slept on, one of his long legs tossed over the warm body wrapped in his arms. His leg, holding captive to both of hers, pulled her in and she mumbled incoherently, snuggling further into the heat of his tall frame, seeking comfort and lost in her dreams. Both of his limber arms tightened, drawing her into him until he wasn't sure where her body ended and his began but that was okay. This was his wife, he was allowed to smother her into him. The Sun, not wanting to be ignored, drifted into the brunched blankets, sifting between two bodies entangled by Fate and breathless futures.

Sometimes happily ever afters came much later, long after the ending, and not always in the way you dreamed them to be.

The hardest lesson Ichigo had ever learned, his sleepy, muddled brain remembered, was knowing that his future hadn't turned out the way he had thought it would.

Undeterred, the shafts of sunlight stretched across the room. Warmth and light brushed every surface, specks of dust dotting the light like tiny pinpricks. From beyond the gateway of sleep and warm bodies, water quietly trickled followed by a sharp, hollow clonk frightening birds into darting from the garden, chittering into a vast open blue. Cresting over the horizon and chasing away navy blue skies, the Sun, determined, stretched out it's glow. The half-opened shoji was a portal of light, arcing through the room and over the huddled blankets.

His body shifted but he didn't awaken, fighting for those last few minutes, those last few dreams and wishes flittering behind closed eyelids. What waited him when he woke up wasn't the Sun and he wanted to linger in the Moon's gaze a little longer. The futon of pallets and blankets was in the centre of the spare room, it's space mostly empty save for a couple of pieces of furniture. Tatami floors sucked in the heat, faded in places where the floor kept the memory of feet that had tread through, of warm laughter and teasing, playful chases. Faded bamboo was all that was left of those once happy memories, of small bare feet, words and feelings drawn into the threads.

Off to the right of the sleeping bodies was a small, wooden dresser. Attached was a bamboo-framed mirror, tilted slightly downward and reflecting intangible dreams. Picture frames, all shapes and sizes, littered the top. Glass and wood encased the frozen smiles and the past, keeping life from fading away. A smiling, orange haired boy, his hair messy and his smile crooked, grinned at the camera, held in the arms of a very proud, bright-eyed Jiji-chan, a light blue sign hanging behind them that was both familiar and bittersweet. Two girls, one on each side, struck peace signs leaning against the wide shouldered, broad chested smiling man.

One had honey blonde hair with brightly glowing light brown eyes they almost liked molten sunlight gathered in her pools, mouth stretched in a wide toothy grin. The other was a darker, quieter shadow of her twin. Dark black hair framed a sharper face, deep grey eyes narrow and lips quirked up into a bare replica of the bright Sun on the other side.

It was the happiness glowing out of their mismatched eyes that was the only thing the same between them.

Their souls – bright and free – were the same.

Stares frozen in time and smiles suspended, the twins bent at the waist, their thin fingers parted in a 'v'. The older man had finally been burdened with his first two grey hairs, streaking along the sides of his spiky dark hair, lines crinkling under his bright eyes. His wide, toothy grin beat the age marring his body, the little boy's bright orange hair reminiscent of Ichigo's.

Light dappled into the airy, spacious room and the Sun, finally having had enough, struck the glassy shine of the picture frames. Reflecting off the glass, a bright, glistening thread of light splayed out across a softened face, lying over sleepy closed eyes. Thick eyebrows furrow over scrunched, closed eyes and, with a deep heavy puff of air, sleep slips away and Kurosaki, Ichigo finally awakens to a victorious Sun.

Releasing a quieter sigh, honey-brown orbs blink open. Sleep fades from his large, lean limbs, and he curls his toes snorting at the way the blankets are piled up past his knees.

Looking down at the sleeping blob in his arms, hidden beneath the light blue comforter, he leans down, closing his eyes and laying his nose at the hem where the soothing scent of cherry blossoms and a fresh, chilly cold drifts up. Just a few more minutes here with her in his arms is all he needs. No amount of time will ever be enough for him to spend with her and after a long day of work, his greatest gift is knowing she will be there – unless she works over time and in that case, he will go, throw her over his shoulder, and take her home, kicking and screaming.

A soft smile stretches across his lips and he pulls the bundle of blankets and warm skin closer, wanting to stay wrapped up in this moment. Maybe if he does they can manage to sleep a few more minutes before their son, Kazui, wakes up and demands their attention or before work calls in. All it takes is one call and she will be out the door, her sense of duty too hard for her to ignore despite his grumbling, irritated pouting he would give her.

He loves and hates that about her, but knows he wouldn't change a damn thing.

His right leg is tossed carelessly over hers, drawing her smooth, bent legs right between his, his other stretched out of the safety of the blankets. Lying half on his side, his right arm is braced on top of the covers, his palm flat above her upper back and crushing her into him, blankets and all. His other hand is being used as a pillow, her soft cheek nestled on the muscles of his arm. Silky strands of her hair tickle his numb, tingling skin and he winces at the tight pressure.

But there's no way in hell he's waking the demon to remove her pillow; it's a lost cause and, fondly, he rolls his half-lidded honey orbs upward.

Gnawing his own arm off is his best bet.

One of her small hands is tight around his hips drawing him into her, her hand curled into a gentle, loose fist at his back. Her other hand is resting on his bare chest, fingertips barely grazing the firm, hardened skin. It's almost painful the way his broad shoulders are drawn together to accommodate her body to his, her much smaller body fitting perfectly in his hard edges. Sunlight dances across the covers and he twists his head, glancing back with a glare at the half-open shoji. Mouth settling into a deep frown, he squints at the light and wonders if she would kill him if he got up to shut the door.

But then he remembers why it was left open in the first place and the pulse of annoyance melts swiftly.

Shifting back around, he stares at the woman hidden in the covers and his frown fades. It's not quite a smile but not a frown, his sharp, narrow eyes softened by light and the harsh frown lines disappearing from his cheeks and his jaw.

It wasn't often she initiated anything like their bare bodies reminded him of but when she did it was usually because she _needed_ the reassurance of him, of their bond, of the glistening golden bands on their ring fingers. When she was scared – and wouldn't admit it for fear she would drop dead – or when she had had a nightmare of times long past, of battles and scars and tears, she would jerk him to her, not caring where they were or what they were doing, and kiss him like her life depended on it – and sometimes, he wondered if maybe it did. Passion was a word associated with her but it often wasn't a burning, consuming fire. Her passion was controlled and dominating, it didn't burn you but instead it drug you under it's waves, drowning you in grace and fluidity. Like a hot spring, it bubbled beneath the waves, warm but rippling.

Love was a subtle simmer for her that boiled over, flooding her and, effectively he might add, him in waves of desire.

Last night, when he had come home – for once before her and he had been proud of her, ready to praise her, until she had silenced him and until later when he found out _why_ she was home earlier than even him – and saw her standing there in the half-open doorway, navy blue dotted with pinpricks of sparkling stars above her and the low, dim light of the lantern inside, his heart had nearly burst. She was small beneath the fathomless sky and light silhouetting her in the darkness of the garden, fireflies swarming by her in a stream, and the protectiveness that swelled in his chest, tight and hot, almost suffocated him. He would do anything, give anything, harness any power in the world for her. Protecting her was his strength; it was the only reason he needed power, it was the only drive he needed to master anything that would keep her fragile heart beating.

Standing there, one hand with her fingers curled tightly into the edge of the shoji door and the other hand lying flat on the wood, in her pure white yukata, the obi half-tied and hanging loose, he had never known beauty before her.

Falling from the deep blue sea of stars, weightless and breathless, he landed in their garden, his heart lost in pools reflecting a sky without light. He landed on one foot and one knee, both of his arms held open and empty, waiting for her and as soon as his arms were in the air, bare feet darted towards him. She launched herself at him almost taking them both to the dewy, cool grass of the Earth, the fireflies like bright yellow sparks igniting the fire in both of their bellies.

His stomach flipping was the only warning he got before she had slammed her soft lips into his, her small pink tongue darting forwards. Heat pulsed low in his groin, his stomach boiling and his blood liquid fire, when she pressed further, tongue wiggling between his lips and tearing them apart. She swallowed his groan, hands tangled in his fiery orange strands, pulling at his spiky hair. His arms curled around to her back, fingers digging into the soft cotton of her yukata and, standing to his feet, pulling her up into him. Gaining control, he tilted his head and pushed down with a slight growl. Hot fire sparked along his skin as he carried them towards the open shoji, his tongue tangling silkily with her own.

Retreating with a vibrating hum, he followed her desire and thrust inward. Smooth and slow, he tasted every inch of her mouth, delving into places only he knew until she was jerking hastily at his hair. They had stumbled into the room and barely made it to the futon before desire had consumed them, drowning them in waves of heat, rippling muscles, swelling pleasure, and a white-hot chill that left them both breathless and hearts pounding erratically.

Blood rushed south at the memories and he winced.

Well, shit, even while asleep she was a tempting vixen!

With a fond smile, Ichigo holds his wife and the arm atop the covers slips under the covers, threading through soft silk strands in soothing, comforting strokes.

From the heated depths comes a pleased hum and Ichigo's lips twitch in amusement. Demon appeased.

Huffing, honey orbs flicker up and find sunlight caressing a picture that sends his heart careening. Light pink cherry blossom petals fall from a thick, towering tree, it's branches low and plentiful with the sweet blossoms. It was called the Thousand Blossom Tree for a reason and it was that reason Ichigo had picked that spot for their wedding. The picture was frozen with the two of them, her dainty hands loosely in his own, a soft, blushing smile on her face and his grin a bright memory of sunlight after the rain. Her wedding yukata was also pure white, cherry blossom petals dancing across the silky fabric and bright, light blue stars over the thick obi tied in a large bow at her back like butterfly wings.

It wasn't the first time she had stolen his breath but it was the last time he got it back. Most people say they're spouse leaves them breathless but his really did – whether it was her beauty or her willpower when she was determined, deep pools burning with an inner strength that rivalled the world.

And somehow this breathtaking Goddess was_ his_.

She had chosen him and together, they had defied their future, fought their Fate, and carved their hearts out of blood and sweat.

Soft rustling drew his soft gaze back to the womanly, curvy lump in the covers. Shifting, she groaned softly and then cursed, his smile widening into a grin.

"Mornin' sunshine."

There was quiet grumbling which he was sure sounded like 'fuck you' followed by a loud, annoyed sigh and he snorted.

He was rewarded by a small foot smashing into his thigh and he grunted at the harsh jab. "Can't get comfy. You moved."

Blinking down at the shuffling blankets with a tiny glare, he grumbled, "Oh yeah that's my fault. Not my fault you damn moron that my arm is basically falling off from your fat head."

With an indignant yell, from the covers, emerges the most beautiful, terrifying thing he has ever seen.

Out from the thick blankets pops a tousled, unkempt head of inky dark hair, an icy violet glare searing into him from the corners of her slightly round orbs. Soft smooth skin graces gentle bones, dignity in the very features of her face. Light cheekbones accentuate her soft features, compliment her sharp jaw and soft-pointed chin. Short, deep black hair frames her face, dangling to the edge of her small jaw and when she jerks her head away, those silky strands swing with the fast movement. The blanket is bunched up to her chest but her slim shoulders and the spine of her back are bare to his gaze. He takes no time glancing at the curves and lustrous alabaster skin his hands and fingers have memorized down into his very bones.

"It is your fault, dumb strawberry. You've been twisting around and squeezing me to death you idiot how could I not wake up?"

Ignoring her – which wasn't really very hard to do until she got violent – he sits up, leaning all his weight on one palm pressing into the heat of the tatami mats below. The other broad hand lifts, twining into the loose bangs at her forehead and brushing them away from her face. Tucking it behind her small ear, his fingers linger at her smooth, slender neck and his eyes darken when he feels her tremble at his touch.

For a moment she looks off to the closed door of their room, debating probably running from him, but then, from dark hair and thick black lashes, swirling violet skies lift up and meet golden honey.

A jolt travels down to his belly and he smiles, slowly leaning towards her. She doesn't run but she never was one to flee – too stubborn and too feisty to give up. It was one of the many things he loved about her and would always admire about her. Sometimes he was thankful she was so damn stubborn but at other times he wanted to strangle her. This one, tiny woman had the power to destroy him. She was both his greatest source of strength and his one weakness, the one thing that if he lost would cripple him completely.

Just as his face inched closer, he froze, assaulted by the horrible thought of what it would be like without her.

Without those luminous purple orbs looking up at him like they were now, bright, burning pools of violet fire twinged with anticipation, her breath hitching and chest tightening. What would he do without that small, short body with gentle, loose curves, thin arms and legs, and soft, round edges? How could he live without that pale, moonlight-kissed skin, violet orbs bright and swirling deeply? If he could no longer feel the lulling draw of her body heat, no longer bury his nose in her sweet blossom scent, if he couldn't reach out and touch her…..

Overcome by need and drowning in his thoughts, a broad hand snaps out, grabbing a surprised woman by her free arm and jerking her into him. Her supple body falls into his, the blanket falling away, and her small, round breasts press into the hard planes of his chest. His hand, holding tight to her thin arm, tightens and she gasps in surprise rather than pain but he swoops down, capturing her parted, pink lips in a searing, melting kiss. The moment he meshes their lips together, sparks shoot down his spine igniting a fire in his belly. Soaring into life, desire rushes through his veins bubbling in his blood.

Without her there is no point in living.

Pressing not only his lips into hers, he sweeps his heart through her mouth and devours the hot, wet fire. Tongues clash, caressing each other in a slow tangle and their lips slide in a sensual, silken caress. Her desires rival his and she presses back just as harsh, slipping with ease onto her knees. With a soft rustle the blanket falls away and bares her pale skin to the Sun's warm fingers, her body rose up like a siren out of their bed. Silky black hair curtains their slow, zealous lip-lock, both of her soft hands rising to his jaw. Fingertips press gently at his chin, fingers brushing down his jaw and around the nape of his neck, clawing into his bright orange hair.

It's a stolen moment hidden in sunlight, two hearts beating as one and fire licking slowly at their skin. But all precious moments have to come to an end.

Breath was a necessity for them both and, tenderly softening the blaze into softly burning embers, they pull away, opening their eyes and locking gazes. Dark purple meets bright brown, warm light falling between them. Looking up into the eyes he loves, Ichigo smiles. This, this is what he fights for, lives for, breathes for –

And he calls her name in a reverent, hoarse whisper: "Rukia."

She responds to his whisper, breathless and quiet. "Ichigo."

Feeling the tension, finally, drain from her small, small shoulders – why the hell did she try to carry the world on those tiny things anyway when he would willingly take the weight – and with his long fingers carding through the darkness of her hair, he knows it's time to see where her mind has been and why she's acting like he's going to disappear if she blinks.

Which is ridiculous because he's not going fucking anywhere she isn't.

"What's wrong?"

She opens her pretty pink lips and he scoffs, shaking his wild hair. "Don't you dare say nothing, midget. I know you way better than that. Somethin' is wrong and you're gonna tell me whose ass I have to kick to make it better."

Her lips twitched, thin fingers in his bright orange hair giving the soft strands a gentle tug. "It's just…..I had a bad dream."

Both eyebrows shoot into his hairline. "A….Bad dream?"

Narrowing icy violet pools into churning voids of darkness, Rukia frowns deeply and smacks her forehead into his with a soft clonk. "Yes. A bad dream."

He pinches her waist, the small skin at her hips, and grins at her yelp. "About what?"

This time she takes a minute. "You."

And for a moment he wonders if her fears were real. If she was dreaming about him dying there was no way he could reassure her without lying or if she had a dream about him getting murdered by her brother, then, well, that made two of them.

Centring his thoughts, he swallows past the heavy knot in his throat. "Did I fight killer monkey's or somethin'? Come on, Rukia, I'm here. And I want you to tell me what's hurting you so I can kill it."

"You can't kill everything that wants to hurt me, Ichigo."

"Watch me."

All playful humor fled in the wake of his serious statement, dusting snowy skin a light, pale pink. With a loud, exasperated groan, she tucks her head in the crook of his shoulder and his neck, her breath causing rippling shivers to dance over him.

"You selfless, heroic _idiot_."

"Most of the time," He started, voice softening and a hand lifting to caress the top of her head. "That would be a compliment. But with you it sure as hell didn't sound like it."

"It's not. Stupid."

"Rukia, why are you insulting me?" He nudged the blushing girl with his shoulder but she didn't budge and he didn't really care enough to remove her.

"It's not an insult if its the truth." But, then, quietly, breath carrying her nearly silent words over his tingling skin, "At the end….When…..We weren't….I had a dream and you were….Married."

Before she could carry on the rest, Ichigo rolled his eyes and sarcastically responded. "Well, considering you _are_ married that's not –"

"Not to me! To –" She broke off abruptly and Ichigo's hand stilled, holding her to his neck when her hands, tangled in his hair, pulled sharply.

Her next whisper made his heart clench. Not because it couldn't happen but because the reality was that it very well _could_ _have_.

"To Orihime."

A hint of jealousy coloured her words green and, ordinarily, Ichigo would have been satisfied to hear it. But not now when his small, fragile wife is curled in his arms, trembling from a nightmare and believing Ichigo could ever stop loving her.

"The fuck is wrong with you."

He couldn't let go of her, even when she began to struggle in his arms, squirming and shoving her hands on his chest. It was only a need to escape from the things she didn't want to deal with and he wasn't about to let her pull away from him. His words weren't malicious but, gazing down at the dipped head, taut shoulders, and curled fists pushing firmly on his chest, his gaze remained steady, determined not to let her go and lose herself to whatever stupid thoughts she was having. But the memory of heated, sweaty skin, of a warm breeze rustling over their slick bodies in the night, and purple pools glowing brighter than any gem was enough to keep his arms caging her slim body into his own.

Anyone you asked could tell you that Ichigo severely lacked patience – except with Rukia. Sure, they fought, _constantly_, and she was a pain in the ass most days…..But he loved her and any life without her was no life at all, it didn't matter what future that waited out there, drawing breath, if Rukia wasn't there and he wasn't wrapped around her thin, short pinkie finger then it wasn't a life he wanted to live.

After Yhwach's defeat there had been a choice he had had to make.

It was a simple one and one he had argued with himself – and others – multiple times over the years he had been fighting, putting his life on the line to protect the ones he loved and that depended on him.

Keep his powers, become a full-fledged Shinigami, and, consequently, leave his human life behind to live in Soul Society.

Or let go, give up on being the hero and let someone else wear the suit of flimsy armor, living his life as a human where, when he eventually passed away from boredom, enter the Rukongai without any memories of being anything but just another soul.

Live as a human and give himself to the girl who had always secretly loved him, making her dreams come true, and, even now, Ichigo knew he could have loved her. Over time. He would have loved her, given her as much of him as he could – she would never have had all of him because violet tipped fingers carved shimmery blue grooves in the depth of his fucking soul – and they could have been some type of happy.

But he couldn't forget Rukia. She would always be in the forefront of his thoughts, always lingering on the edge of his mind. They could have been happy, could have had a life and a family, but standing on that hill overlooking blood-soaked bodies, death an intangible mist claiming those too weak to carry on, his choice had never been more clear.

It started with them – Rukia and Ichigo, them, her and him – and that was the way it was always meant to end.

He had jumped, not only into the thick, solemn air of battles won and battles lost, but into his future. And he hadn't looked back.

He just hadn't thought she did, either.

Looking down at his Moon, soft and glowing, with her forehead resting on his collarbone and hands in loose fists, Ichigo felt his gut clench, hard. Chest swelling tightly, steel arms curled protectively around her as he bent his spiky orange head down. Cheek nestled on her small shoulder, his lips brushed the shell of her round ears and he whispered the future, quietly uttered what he had always known to be the truth.

"There was never any competition. It was you. It was always going to be you. It…." His voice broke and he took a deep breath, raising his quiet breathy whisper to a steady tone, full of promise. "It will always be you."

Because at the end of the fairytales, in the far off, unclear future, there was only truth: love_ always_ wins.Ichigo had no doubts, when smooth lips met his own, they would never fall from their violet hued, fiery orange sky.

"Ew. Can't you two get a room?"

But the future also lied in the round, narrow face of a small boy with his arms crossed, one eye a brilliant, bright purple and the other honey-streaked amber. Tufts of flyaway black hair stick up in all directions, one single lock of thick hair lying over the bridge of his nose, the tip faded into a dark orange-red. His small head peeked into his parents' room, nose wrinkled in the way only a child can manage, his face all smushed and arms crossed over his bare chest.

Kazui was 8 and he held the future of Soul Society in his mismatched eyes.

Ichigo snorted. "We're in our room, jackass."

He pretended it didn't hurt when a bony elbow slammed into his ribcage, his breath leaving him in a quick rush.

Rukia tucked the blanket firmly around her, under her slim arms, and held out her forearms, a gentle smile all the invitation the small child needed. Disgust faded when faced with his mother's open arms and he flew from the doorway, using the shunpo his Byaku-jiji had taught him, into her embrace. Rushing into her chest, head of dark hair nestled somewhere in her skin and light blue comforter, Rukia's eyes widened momentarily when she nearly toppled backwards but a large, fingers spread open palm kept her from falling to her Fate of a cold hardwood floor.

Sparing the man next to her a gratefully irritated glance, she hugged her son to her, one hand running through his tangled strands of messy hair. "Ohayo, Kazui."

A mumbled grumble was the best they were going to get and Ichigo's lips twitched into a familiar if not aged half-smirk. "That's a pretty intelligent response there, kid."

His son peeked above his mother's bare arm to give his father an icy glare before succumbing back into the depths of warmth and comfort. A quiet giggle reached his ears and he looked to his wife, her bright purple orbs shining in the morning light and looking at him like he was the Sun splaying out across her perfect face.

He reached out, a warm palm caressing her jaw and the side of her smooth cheek, holding not only his Moon but his world in his wide, large hand.

In his hand, he held his future and he had no intentions of ever letting Rukia find out his secret: the Sun only rose each morning to chase his Moon, catching glittering stars left in her wake across an inky blue sky.

It was never a competition because the Moon had the heart of the Sun all along.


	2. Tale of the Sun and Moon

Everyone strives for that fairytale ending, for that singular happiness that never fades. But not all stories end, happily or not. Sometimes the 'happy' ending is only an illusion and at the end, you will find yourself searching for more, for that one moment that will bring your story to it's closure. You search for happiness, not realizing the future has no end and that fragments of warm joy lie in the small moments of your path.

For the Princess of our story, her happiness lie not in the end of her story, but all the pieces of her life drawn together, linked by a thin, red string.

Our Princess, whom was likened to the Moon for her pale skin and vast navy pools like an eternal night sky drawn into her round, expressive orbs.

("Princess? Who's a princess?" A voice interrupts with a snort and is rewarded by a fist to the underside of the jaw and a firm, icy glare.)

The Princess lived in a harsh world where she had to fight for everything, for her right to live, for the smidgens of food she had to steal. Nothing was handed to her and she learned quickly that the world ignored what it didn't want to see, what it refused to believe would taint it's perfect existence. That included lost, lonely beggars like her, struggling to survive with only her will and smoking embers of a spark yet to ignite lingering inside her soul.

She was young but strong, learning the ways of life, and as all stories go, she was lifted from her cold despair by the hand of a Prince.

But not all Princes come in armor and white horses and not all Princes end up marrying the Princess.

This Prince offered her his slim hand, a chance away from Hell and elevation to become worthy of the title Princess, worthy of her story.

("Prince? Yeah, right. He's no sooner a Prince than I am.")

Staring at that pale hand, the world narrowed down to a point and the embers sparked, unlit but glowing. She could take his hand and be free of the relentless grip of starvation, the struggle to stand on her own two feet, she could become better and be more. As all Princesses do, she wanted more of her dead life, wanted to know who she really was beneath the torn, dirty rags and the uncertainty of the unknown. If she took this offered chance, maybe she could find herself and know who she really was. For this Princess didn't want riches or fame, status or power. No, what she wanted was only to know how she truly was on the inside, to rise and be strong enough to proudly declare she had reached the end of her story.

Fate, however, always has other plans.

("What's Fate? Can I eat it?" A small voice asked curiously, head tilted to the side and small orbs round in wonder.

The storyteller laughed gently and shook her head, navy orbs sparkling. "You can't eat it. Fate is the future, determined and absolute."

A small nose wrinkled. "If I can't eat it and I can't fight it, then I don't care."

A deep snicker and another punch thrown, this time to a shoulder. "Fighting and eating aren't all there is in life. Life is made up of more than that. It's more than how strong you are."

An annoyed, clipped sigh brings their attention to a bored flicker of fiery orbs lit by a dim, flickering light making the hues of their gaze seem to come alive and dance. "Can we continue with the story now?"

Coughing into a fist, the storyteller takes a deep breath and the next page of the story is turned.)

Our Princess had a choice to make and she knew it before even decided.

Placing her small, rough-skinned hand into the silky, pale palm of the Prince, his long cool fingers gently grasped hers and he pulled her out of the pit of despair and into the light. But the light is not always kind, it is not always warm.

The light holds the darkest shadows.

("But….Its light. It doesn't _have_ shadows, Mom."

"Everything has a shadow. You can't see the darkness in the light until it's too late."

Two pairs of wide eyes blink at her and then, from the smaller, round-faced boy comes the quiet, sombre whisper, "Too late for what?"

Her smile is soft and sad. "To escape.")

But she knows none of this yet and, accepting her chance of freedom, she is pulled from the bottom, from dark, dank streets and scavenging for food, to a sprawling mansion where she is bowed to, called Ojou-sama, and where food is brought on large silver trays to her room. Her room, a space all hers, and too large for her to fill with the nothing she owns. This huge mansion, and the Prince who saved her, become her new life, the next chapter of her story in the pages of her book, but it never becomes home. Home is not so empty, lacking warmth and light, home is not cold and home is more than walls, than fancy clothes and good food…..It's more than wishes and dreams and more than ice and shadows.

Except she accepted her Fate and now must live it.

So she does. She strives to live up to the Ice Prince's expectations – no matter how much he stood in the bright, warm sunlight, no matter how much she attempted to hug him, as useless as he deemed it, he was never warm, always cold to the touch – and she fights to find her inner limits, to surpass them and be what the Ice Prince, her adopted older brother, is teaching her to become.

And it is here she learns that there is more to her small, narrow world than she had ever imagined. Every story has monsters, has a mad, crazed villain, and the words of her story run rampant with evil. Living like a street urchin is the least of her concerns, for a greater evil exists, one that threatens the Princess' dreams. The vast future is being unwound and invaded but back in the days of her youth, she was ignorant, untouched by Fate's tears. She had no idea what waited her and that is the both the strength and weakness of the future. There was no way to avoid it and so, without any knowledge or fear, the Princess powered on, darkness' claws reaching for her.

She had _powers_. She didn't have to be weak any more. For once, she could be strong. Magic came naturally to her; sword wielding did not. Where others struggled to call the bright, flowing magic to the palms of their hands, all she had to do was breathe and it was called to her, flickering in her hands and encompassed with the power inside of her. The Ice Prince was pleased by her progress, spending the days teaching her until her hands burned and her head pounded, the magical force draining her. She received her first sword from him, a long white blade like freshly fallen snow with a fluttering ribbon on the end.

It took much longer to wield the sword, to channel her very soul into it, and she hadn't succeeded, her brother's disappointed stares cutting her deeper than the cold steel clutched in her hands.

When the sword was in her hands – everyone had a Soul Sword, as they were called, most just never knew how to wield them or had the power to control them – he brought her to a room she had never entered, sliding the shoji open slow and quiet as if he was afraid to disturb what lie within. But all that remained was a thick coat of dust on the wooden floor and a small, dark shrine in the very back of the large room. It was almost a waste, this room, with it's expansive space and perfect view of the garden, a large blooming cherry blossom tree right outside on the small surrounding porch. He led her into the dust covered room, steps marking the floor with his presence, and she followed, obedient.

He waited for her at the shrine and when she sidled up next to him, round eyes large, he lifted elegant fingers and gripped the small round knobs. For the first time, he hesitated, battling a hidden enemy in the shadows of his dark gaze. Something gave, a door thrust open and a demon slain, and, slowly, he pulled the mirrored shrine doors wide open.

The hand closest to his flowing white robes lifted, her fingers digging harshly into the silk and her breath catching in her throat.

She stared at the face that was hers but not her own and her sparking embers fizzled out by an icy wind. A fast snow fell in her heart, smothering the fire before it could burst into flame, her heart frozen in a wasteland of snow and ice.

Fate looked down at the Princess with sorrowful, begotten eyes as the Ice Prince – cold not by his choosing but by the loss of his own spark, snuffed out by Death's clawed fingers and the chains clamped around his wrists, locked by the Council that ordered his, and hers, loyalty – told her a tale of death, of love lost but a promise kept and not forgotten.

He told her her story, of the words pages back, and she listened, quiet, a cold, harsh blizzard drowning out her emotions in a layer of thick ice even the hottest fire could never burn. It was the day she became the Ice Princess and lost her heart dark viper lingering in the depths of light. Icy poison chilled her veins with each word that left her brother's thin frown. He never smiled and now she knew why. He had loved the sister she had never known she had but he had failed to protect her, failed to be the Prince when all he could do was hold her hand as she withered away like the cherry blossoms falling from the tree, shrivelling on the ground into wrinkly, dead clumps.

It was the promise that had kept him alive. Search for my sister, bring her home. Find her. He promised and he had found her, reaching out to a starving, skinny wretch on the street. It wasn't because of her, though, it was because of a promise to another that he had reached out to her. If there had never been a promise, if her older sister had passed, would he have ever come for her at all? Or she would have been left in that place, on the verge of life and death, until her story ended?

Hand falling limply from his sleeve, he left her there at the shrine, turned and walked away, white robes billowing out behind him. He never looked back and she never looked away from the framed image of her own soul. The last tears she would cry for years to come built at the corners of her eyes, reflected in the glass picture frame of a softly smiling woman with _her_ eyes, a gentle, friendly smile, and silk robes hanging off her small, thin frame.

They looked like twins but were nothing alike.

The woman frozen in the photo, lingering even after death in her kind eyes, was gentle, soft and womanly, but the one reflected in the shiny glass was short and rough, fierce and stubborn. And she wondered, then, if that was why the Ice Prince refused to touch her. She was nothing like the dead woman, she was nothing like a Princess.

When she turned, tears nothing but cold wet tracks on her cheeks, she left her heart on the open shrine, at the base of a dead smile and empty eyes.

(Narrow eyes looked down at the kids in his lap, from one head to the next, both of them holding tight and wide, teary eyes focused on the storyteller. "Uh, why don't we tell them a happier story? Cause this is gettin' morbid."

A small head snaps up to look at him, wide-eyed, fingers digging into his arm. "We have to know what happens next!" He snaps back to the storyteller, leaning forward and shifting in his father's lap. "Please?"

The taller, quieter girl nods quickly, leaning her back into her father's steady chest, shifting her shoulders until she's comfortable. He tightens his hold on them both and they relax into his warmth. "Does she get her heart back?"

The storyteller, a woman, flicks her gaze up to meet the man's gaze and then looks back at her enraptured audience, lips twitching. "You can't skip chapters. You'll have to wait and see."

The boy blinks and then points with a short, chubby finger to his sister. "She does. She always skips to the best parts first."

Pink dusts the girl's cheeks as she crosses her arms and purses her lips. "Tattle tale."

The storyteller chuckles. "Wouldn't it be great if we could just skip to the best parts? But it doesn't work that way when your living the story. You have to live each word, each page, never knowing what waits for you on the next.")

And that's what she did.

Mechanically, the Ice Princess, her heart sealed and encased in walls of cold blue, lives on, growing in power and into the Slayers where her brother sits as one of the 13 Leaders. It is here her emptiness is filled with one single purpose, her power used for only one thing: the job of a Slayer is to destroy monsters. They're everywhere, lying in wait to devour souls and destroy anything in their path. Fire buried deep beneath the cold weight of truth in her chest, she trains and grows, an Ice Slayer and moulded to the Council's wishes. Heavy steel chains encase her wrists, tying her to the Council. But it doesn't take long before, as it always does, something breaches her icy walls.

You can hide away your heart but you cannot block out the light.

A thin, single shaft of light pierces her walls, thawing the cold organ in her chest. It's not the soft, spiky dark hair or the bright silver-grey orbs but the wide, friendly grin and warm hand that melt the layers and calm the fierce blizzard.

And Fate closes tired, weary eyes of a future tangled in shadows and twisted with grief. The blizzard may have stopped but the snow remains.

("Hmph. She's out."

The storyteller pauses and both sets of eyes look down at their daughter, her wild, messy locks of hair sticking up in all directions. Her soft cheek rests on her father's arm, slow even breaths making her chest rise and fall.

The youngest looks over at his sleeping sister and then turns back to the storyteller, shifting on his father's lap. "Doesn't snow melt, Mommy?"

Her smile is riddled with sadness and her dark orbs glisten in the dim light. "Yes. But snow can only melt away in the light of the Sun."

"Don't worry. The Sun is the best part of this stupid story."

Sighing, she reaches over to her right and lifts up her arm, bringing it down moments later on top of ruffled spiky hair like his daughter's with a wham. Their son looks up and giggles, small white feathers raining down from the large gash in the pillow from his skull making contact with soft cotton.

The little boy, eager and with a mind that can't sit still, kicks his little feet and glances between his parents until he has their attention, little feathers sinking into his hair like softly fallen snow. "Is the Sun really the best part?"

Little orbs glow up at her and her irritation slips into a soft contentment, light amusement tracing the edges of her eyes. "Do you remember the name of the Princess?"

Her son's eyes roll upwards, his small tongue flicking out onto his upper lip as he tries to remember. When he does, his eyes sparkle and he nods his head up and down ecstatically. "Her name is Moon!"

His mother, pleased, nods gently. "And what of the Sun and the Moon?"

This time, he doesn't take any time to reply, soft voice alight with confidence and uncontained joy only a child can inhibit. "They're both in the same sky!"

Long, rough fingers slip into her own and she lifts her gaze to meet her husband's, smiles reflecting the same sky. "The coldness of the Moon is always chased by the Sun. Because they are in the same sky, it's inevitable they would meet.")

The light climbs her cold walls, thicker than steel and withstanding even the hottest flames, and the shelter of her heart cracks from a single, tiny thread of bright light. He comes to her with a toothy grin and bright grey orbs in a long, sharp face. He's lanky and doesn't look like he could hold a sword. The Ice Princess and the Light don't get along right away, bantering turning into teasing turning into the first friendship, the first crack in the mighty ice wall of her heart. The first but not the last.

Later she finds out he's married and though only friends, she cannot help but feel a prick of jealousy. Kind and jovial, always smiling always laughing, he lifts her out of her icy prison, out of the depths of the freezing void, and into his Light.

There, she learns to live.

She basks in the Light but all things touched by it's warmth only grow colder when night falls. And, inevitably, night will always come.

Our Princess of Ice and Snow is forced to extinguish the Light or watch it be devoured by the Monsters, watch in horror as that beautiful, kind Light is taken over by darkness and death. It was kill or be killed and, unable to decide, the Light made the choice for her. With her sword raised, shaking and afraid, the monstrous Light falls onto the blade, damning her and saving her at the same time. In her arms, the Light dims until, with a quiet flicker, it fades completely.

This time when the frozen walls are erected, a dark night descends within her soul. A harsh, biting blizzard keeps anything from getting too close to her fragile, broken heart and the walls are a steady defence, thicker and colder than before.

A full, hanging moon watches, silent and solemn, waiting for the storm to pass so it can shed it's light on a heart locked away.

("I don't think this story is appropriate for kids."

"You're not appropriate for children and you're allowed near them."

He sends her a quick glare and slight frown but she only blinks innocently at him, not noticing the way their son looks between them with a knowing smile and quiet giggle. "They're my kids."

"No one said you had to be mature to have kids."

"Fuck you."

"Language!"

Assaulted by the same torn pillow, he growls from beneath the fluffy rain of white feathers, matching his wife's glare with his own.

Leaving the destroyed weapon on her husband's head, she looks down at their son, his large, round eyes holding way too much wisdom for a 5 year old. And her heart aches because there is nothing she – or they – can do to prevent it.

Slipping her fingers along his brow, she brushes back his tangled hair from his forehead and smiles. "Don't worry. It gets better from here."

Her son's eyes widen even further and he leans into her touch. "Really?"

"Mhmm."

"Because of the Sun?"

Leaning back onto her bent calves, her hand falls back to her husband's and this time when she meets his eyes, her gaze is soft. "Because of the Sun.")

Thick and full in the vast, stretched sky, a bright moon glows out of the darkness. She waits because it's just another mission, just another Monster's mask to cut away. Except that tonight is inevitably different than the others. Was it Fate that the Sun and Moon were to meet but never touch? Or was it something darker, something malicious that chewed and tore at that fragile string of red twining them together, ripping it from their hearts and leaving their future a shredded unknown?

Or had it always been meant to end in disaster?

Heavy reiatsu pulled her, called to her, demanded her attention and the cold heart she'd frozen behind thick, icy walls and a raging blizzard, sparked.

She had a choice to make: follow her heart or follow the orders she had been given, obey the code of the Council and the Slayers? It shouldn't have been a choice at all, there wasn't really a decision; her heart clenched tightly and she for the first time, from a time long ago when she was just a Princess in a fairytale, she leaped and the inner blizzard faltered.

Suspended above her post, the sleepy town below was just like the others. Dark, empty windows longing for the light, looking like blank eye sockets out over a desolate, quiet town. Each home was silent, lacking the frenzied movement of life and beating hearts. And then she was falling. Falling through a fathomless sky that always seemed endless, in her world and in this one; falling through life and death, the opposites of existence she hadn't understood before; falling through every decision of her life that had led to this point. She fell and stumbled right into her Fate, through the single wall separating the Moon from the Sun.

One foot forward and their eyes met. Indigo skies into blazing amber suns and the rest of the world, life and death, and even Fate, paused for the moment the Moon met the Sun.

She opened her mouth after taking a deep breath, engrossed in her recollection, but a deep, amused chuckle halted her next words. Mouth snapping shut, she glanced up from her waving, gesturing hands to meet those same amber suns, softened by decades and wrinkled at the corners from years of happiness, erasing the frown lines across his forehead. He nodded at the two small bodies in his arms and her heart melted, her small hands falling into her lap as a heartfelt smile dusts her lips.

There they were, their future, wrapped in the arms of her Sun and sleeping soundly, little smiles dancing on their lips as they dreamed.

Ichika was a lot like her father. She was born the oldest often looking after Kazui, her little brother, and picking on him all in the same breath. She was quiet but blunt and with a stubborn will that often sent Soul Society into pulling out what was left of their hair. Adventurous, she dragged her brother with her into events that made her eye twitch. Oh the trouble those two could cause and Ichika, always young, fiesty Ichika, always somehow ended up in the middle of it all. It didn't matter what it was, it was Ichika. Whenever something went wrong or anyone came running to the 13th Division, Rukia sighed, expecting to hear her daughter's name pass someone's lips.

And, usually, she was prepared.

Right now, though, she was nothing but a girl. Face relaxed and gentle in the throes of sleep, her chest rose and fell deeply from her parted, softly smiling mouth. Her eyelids twitched from her dreams, her fingers curled into her father's hakama-shita and Captain's haori. She looked so small, unlike her fiery personality made her seem bigger, curled up in his lap, one set of fingers grasping his kimono and the other holding to the sleeve of her brother's yukata. Probably the thing that melted her heart into a pile of gooey mush was the way little Kazui was holding to his sister, little fingers holding to the sleeve of her yukata, both of them clutching at each other protectively.

Where Ichika was stubborn and stubborn, open with her opinions but mature beyond her little years, Kazui was the opposite. Bright and cheerful, their youngest son was also very shy. Often, he would cling to his sister's hand when something new happened and avoid speaking to new people until he got to know them. Where Ichika started trouble, Kazui tried to avoid it, tried to be the voice of reason to a bull.

Ichika's burning reiatsu was like a bright, flickering flame and Kazui's was often in the shadow of her fire. He was the wind, stoking his sister's flame but also warmed by it. They were necessary to each other and no matter how much they teased each other, she knew, without a second thought, they were never safer than when they were together.

Speaking of together…..

"Are they still staying with Nii-sama tomorrow?"

Her husband looked up, face gentle and wide goofy grin fading at the mention of her brother. She rolled her eyes and tried to bite her tongue. Even after all these years, after the glint of silver on their ring fingers and long after orange headed Ichika and night haired Kazui, those two still couldn't stand each other long enough without one or other wanting to fight.

"Do they have to?"

She glared, crossing her arms over her dark yukata and growling at her husband. "Yes. He wants to see them. It's you he doesn't want to see. When are you two going to drop this feud?"

"When he stops acting like a baby!"

"Shh! You'll wake them!" They both glanced down, waited to see the rise and fall of their children's even breaths, and then met the other's glare head-on. "He's not the one acting like a spoiled brat, Ichigo!"

He snorted. "Oh, of course not. Cause he's fucking Byakuya Kuchiki and him slicing me to pieces with his pink petals of flowery doom is perfectly okay with _my wife_."

"I am because you running from pink petals and screaming like a little girl is always hilarious."

His glare darkened at her grin and wide violet orbs. "I do _not_ scream like a girl you little midget."

Kuchiki, Rukia opened her mouth again, jaw dropping to retort with purple fire blazing in her sky-drowned pools, but paused, blinking. Looking down, she placed a hand on her swollen belly and winced.

Mumbling, she rubbed the firm flesh with a gentle hand, her fingers caressing the warm skin and the shifting baby in her belly. "Your child is taking your side already."

"Rukia."

Her heart jumped in her chest like it had been electrocuted even though her name was nothing more than a soft hum. Glancing up, hand on her swollen belly and over the baby within, her throat tightens at the warm, bright look in Ichigo's golden orbs. Sunlight and honey lighten his eyes and her breath catches, her fingers twitching over the thumping heartbeat of her baby.

He opens one white Captain haori sleeved arm and the gentleness of his gaze beckons her forward. Rising up on her knees, she steps towards his open arm. She settles next to him, tips of her short dark hair tickling her jaw as she tilts her head into his warm chest, his lean arm draping over the back of her shoulders and her neck. His hand rubs at her upper arm and a rush of tiredness washes over her, pale skies falling over sleepy violets.

A small kiss hits the top of her head and she hums. "Love you, dork."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest and warming her insides, the baby in her belly giving her an appreciative but unwelcomed kick. "Love you more, midget."

A content silence lulled over the family and as sleep draped itself, light and gentle, over Rukia, she mumbled, "Do you think the moon and sun are happy in the sky, never touching and always chasing?"

She let out a grumble when her world shifted, Ichigo lying backwards with the kids lying on his chest and her curled into his side. A moment later and a small whoosh of breath, the room fell into darkness.

It didn't take as long before she felt warm breath on her forehead, a broad palm at the back of her neck tilting her head up. Through her hazy, half-lidded and sleepy pools, she saw the Sun looking back at her, strong and bright and just before she fell into a dream of the moon chasing the sun across a star spangled sky, Ichigo pressed a soft, warm kiss to the skin of her forehead and mumbled, "I think that as long as the moon loves the sun, he will _always_ come for her, no matter how long it takes, no matter what stands in his way. He's happy, Rukia. The sun only shines because he shares the sky with her, his moon, and that's enough for him."

She closed her eyes, grasping at the hakama-shita under his white haori and buried her nose in the strong musky scent of the sun.

"It's enough for her too."

The story remained unfinished but complete in the hearts of the family that lie on the futon, smiles on their faces. High above them and their small house, the moon and the sun finally touch as an eclipse casts it's light over Soul Society. The future was – and would always remain – unknown but the story would end the same, as all stories do. You know what that is because no matter how fleeting or how small, stories can only end one way.

Life and the future may not have an end but they share one thing in common with the end of fairytales: that one, single moment of happiness the sun chases the moon for.

And when he catches her, he will never let her go.


End file.
